


Holding Hands

by loveanddeathandartandtaxes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Demisexual Sherlock, Escort Service, First Kiss, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Illustrated, Inexperienced Sherlock, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Repressed Bisexual John, Rimming, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Voyeurism, that's not explicitly stated but he's definitely demi af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:57:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6235987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm not actually gay."<br/>Peter shrugged. "It's all just skin and orgasms, in the end."<br/>"I... suppose so. But - we're not like that. We're friends; we don't have sex."<br/>"You're about to watch him have sex," Peter pointed out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A full year after walking out of his sham marriage John rather thought he was content. Sherlock was still a danger to himself and everyone in a ten-yard radius at all times - although especially in the early hours of mornings before John planned to work - and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. He had tried dating again, a couple times, but there didn’t seem to be much point any more. The chaos he had was - good. Perfect. Confusing as hell.

“You’re going to have to repeat that, sorry,” he said as he put the kettle on.

“I think that my perceptions of sexual relationships may have been tainted by my formative experiences with them.”

John took a moment to parse the meaning from his words.

“Alright,” he said slowly. Although this had come more or less out of nowhere, John was used to the unexpected from his flatmate, and he wasn't about to judge a coping mechanism of someone who had, apparently, an unhappy sexual history. “How do you feel about that?”

Sherlock’s gaze shifted and focused on John’s face, and a bolt of nervous dread shot through him.

“You’ve had plenty of satisfactory sexual partners.”

John shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Hardly an excessive amount.”

“You say that, yet Murray repeatedly refers to you in his emails by how many-

“Don’t - don’t read my emails, please, Sherlock. It’s just… not on.”

“But you have had a lot of sex.”

“Are you calling me a slag?”

“I could use your expertise.”

“You think I sleep around.”

Sherlock waved this away.

“I believe it would be beneficial to have a more positive sexual experience.”

“Ah. Well, yes, but…”

“I’m sure I believed at the time the sex I had was… fine, but hindsight begins to disagree.”

“What, exactly, is your plan, then,” John forced out in a strangled voice. If Sherlock wanted him to show him good sex, he… would probably be unable to say no, actually, despite knowing from first-hand experience that pity-fucks rarely made for happy memories.

“You’ll need to observe. Make sure things go… right. Maybe give instructions. Possibly intervene."

Pursing his lips, John glanced away. He'd never given voyeurism any more than a passing thought- but this would not be voyeurism, he reminded himself- something more like X-rated chaperoning, apparently.

"Why... Why would I need to intervene? Did you want to ta- no, hang on,  _ I  _ want to talk about your sexual history before I agree to this. What happened?"

"Ah. Well."

John reached for the kettle.

"You don't have to tell me now," he said gently. "You don't  _ have  _ to tell me ever, really. But if you want me to be involved in… whatever this is, then I would like to know what's going on."

Sherlock absently shifted equipment on the table. After a while, he mumbled a little and wandered off. John poured himself a cup of hot water for tea.

  
  


"When I was in college," Sherlock began abruptly one day some weeks later. He did not continue. John stayed silent for a long moment as he plated up their dinner, and beckoned Sherlock to the table with a meaningful glance and a tip of his head.

"When you were in college?” he prompted when they had both sat down. Sherlock looked mildly startled, but nodded.

"Ah, yes. I met Victor Trevor. He... befriended me, I suppose. At first I thought he just felt bad that his dog bit me-"

"His dog  _ bit  _ you?"

"Yes, that's how we met. It was... not as friendly as I had anticipated. A passing resemblance to a childhood pet lowered my guard. Anyway, he made me accompany him to a café across the road from the park we were in, and made sure I was not too badly punctured."

"Okay," John said, unsure of the direction this would take.

"Yes. Then he happened upon me between classes later in the week, and and asked me to let him buy me lunch to apologise for the whole thing.'

"Mmhmm."

"We agreed to meet for lunch again the following week, and again the week after that. He was a year ahead of me, but we were taking similar classes, so we often studied together as well."

"I'm glad you had a friend in college," John admitted.

"Yes, as was I, and my mother, no doubt. Anyway, when he kissed me in the library one afternoon I realised he thought we were dating."

"Oh.  _ Oh _ ." Suddenly he  _ was  _ sure of where this conversation was going, and wondered if he should have poured himself a drink with dinner. Then he realised what he should ask.

"Did you not think you were - I mean, did you want him to kiss you, or not?"

"The thought had barely crossed my mind more than once or twice," Sherlock answered after some thought. "I was not really opposed to the idea, in any case. Of course after a time he wanted us to have sex."

"Again, did you want to?”

At first all John got in response was a noncommittal shrug.

"Obviously I  _ had  _ considered this, and I was certainly curious. It took some trial and error, but we eventually discerned how to ensure mutual orgasms. He was very… sweet.” The word sounded awkward coming from Sherlock. “We broke up after his father was arrested."

"What's that got to do wi- oh,  _ Sherlock _ ."

Refusing to meet his eyes, Sherlock shoveled a few mouthfuls of food into his mouth.

"In university I met Sebastian Wilkes, as you know."

The soft pity he had welling up inside him was promptly swallowed by rage.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," John spat. "That bastard?"

"Yes, well." He selected and chewed another mouthful with consideration. "He was quite proficient with the technicalities of sex, which I admit enamoured me. Non-sexual intimacy was... conditional, however, and he insisted we try things that didn't interest me. Is that..." he paused, looking as young as John had ever seen him. "Bad?"

"It sure as hell isn't  _ good _ , Sherlock. Some relationships are more intimate than others, and that's  _ fine _ , but treating it as currency or something to be bought and paid for... yeah, that's bad." He couldn’t bring himself to ask what, precisely, Sherlock had been coerced into. "No, that's not how sexual relationships should be at all."

"Then I trust that you can appreciate my desire to have someone oversee and evaluate the situation, in my endeavour." He lapsed again into silence, apparently content, and John forced down some more food before pressing further.

"And that's... that? Trevor and Wilkes."

"I realise it is a somewhat limited experience base, but-"

"I'm not... That's fine, Sherlock. It doesn't matter to me how many people you have or haven't slept with. I'm just, you know, making sure I have all the facts."

"I'm not asexual," Sherlock declared. "I do experience sexual attraction."

"Alright," John replied placidly. "So... if I agree to this somewhat madcap scheme, we'll need to find, uh, somebody? Definitely male, or were you interested in..."

"No, definitely male."

"Right. You do know my scope of experience there is,"  _ nonexistent _ , he was going to say, until a pang of nostalgia shot through him. "Limited," he finished weakly.

"Yes, I know."

He looked like he did, too, and John wondered when he had deduced that.

" _ Moving right along," _ John said forcefully. "I suppose I would recommend hiring a professional and being completely open and upfront about what you want. Alternatively, you can undoubtedly pick someone up in a pub or something, but in that case I would suggest  _ against  _ telling them too much. Easier to tell them we're together, that I... like to watch."  

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Like to watch."

"Sod off, Sherlock, I don't have to share what I do or don't prefer to get up to in the bedroom."

Sherlock shrugged. "Just curious."

"I  _ know _ ," John gritted out, "but it's a bit not good, okay? People don't ask about their friend's kinks."

"Oh. Alright." Hesitantly he smiled at John. "Sorry."

"No you're not, but that's alright. So."

"Are you agreeing?"

"To this whole bloody enterprise? I suppose."

" _ Thank you _ , John."


	2. Chapter 2

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock announced on Tuesday afternoon.

"G-What? Where are you going?"

"I have a meeting with Peter. I thought you would be uncomfortable there, so you needn't come."

Racking his brains for anyone they knew called Peter, John frowned in confusion but said nothing.

"The escort I plan on having sex with."

"Ah." _ I didn't know you'd chosen somebody _ , he thought. "Alright."

When he looked up, he caught the edge of Sherlock's coat following him out the door.

On his return, Sherlock looked quite pleased.

"Anything I'll want to know?" John prompted.

"Mm. Friday evening, from 8."

"Oh God, this is really happening."

"Congratulations on catching up."

"Fuck off, Sherlock. This is so far beyond normal, even for us. Do you have condoms, lube?"

"I - no. A little lubricant. I'll purchase more. But I intend to 'bottom', as it were."

John forced himself to ignore the flush of his face.

"Yes,  _ thankyou _ , I had actually deduced that. But this Peter character might want to give you a blow job, mm? Or even if not, safe sex is important, Sherlock. I would have thought he'd have mentioned this."

"He said condoms were not optional, and that he'd provide his own, yes."

"Good, so you have to provide  _ your  _ own. Go find what fits you, what feels good.  _ Don't  _ send any shop assistants into hysterics."

The doorbell rang at 7:57 on Friday evening. John went down to the front door, opening it to reveal a slim man around thirty, dressed smartly, if not as perfectly tailored as Sherlock, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. He seemed eminently likeable, even more so when he smiled and stuck a hand out.

"You must be John."

Taking his hand and shaking it, John couldn't help returning the smile.

"And you must be Peter."

"I must, mustn't I?"

John let him in and closed the door, reminding himself to breathe steadily.

"How are you going with this, John?"

"Ah, I'm fine."

"No, really. Are you okay? Sherlock made it very clear he trusts only you to ensure his safety, that he would not consent to anything without you there, but if there's to be the three of us involved, it's my job to make sure you're both comfortable with what's happening."

"I'm not... getting 'involved'," John protested weakly. "Come on in, we're upstairs."

"If you're there, you're involved," was the firm correction. "But if you don't want to interact at all..."

"No, not at all." He began up the stairs.

"Alright," Peter agreed amicably, and followed.

"I don't know precisely what he told you, but he's not had the greatest experiences with sex, and he is both thorough and impatient. So: someone well-versed in satisfying sex," he nodded at Peter, who smiled graciously, "and someone he trusts with his life," he indicated himself. "You don't need to take any notice of me at all, really. I'm just... in case of incidents."

"Why not just you, though?"

"Hmm?"

"I can't see you as anything but a very generous lover. Why don't  _ you  _ just fuck him?"

John nearly missed the next step, stumbled, righted himself, and turned to face their guest. "Uh, thank you? But I'm not actually gay."

Peter shrugged. "It's all just skin and orgasms, in the end."

"I... suppose so. But - we're not like that. We're friends; we don't have sex."

"You're about to watch him have sex," Peter pointed out.

"Christ, you don't need to remind me. He's just not got the same idea of the boundaries of what is and isn't appropriate, that's all. I try not to think about it too much."

In truth John had been thinking of little else than skin and orgasms - particularly Sherlock's skin and orgasms - in the last three days. Was his torso still as pale and perfect as it had been that morning in Buckingham Palace? Would he be loud? Perhaps his relative inexperience would render him shy.

He forced himself up the stairs, into the flat. Sherlock was standing in front of his microscope, folding himself in half to peer into it.

"Ah, Peter. Fantastic. I like the old 'arrive ten minutes early and ring the bell with three to spare' routine. John will get you a cup of tea or something."

"Will I, now?" John demanded, looking at Peter with what he hoped was apology in his eyes. "Tea, Peter? Or something a little stronger?"

Peter pulled out a chair for himself and sat by the table. "Just tea, thank you."

He flicked the kettle on and pottered around getting three mugs ready - Sherlock would join them for a cuppa, willingly or otherwise - when he heard a muffled moan. Alert, he spun around, and then away again. Sherlock had straddled Peter's thighs and was kissing him messily. Within seconds he was back by the microscope.

"Just so you know I haven't deleted why he's here. I won't be rudely long."

Silence settled over them as Sherlock finished up with his work and John set out cups of tea, the milk and sugar. Eventually the microscope light was flicked off and notebook closed.

"So," Peter started.

"Yes." Sherlock replied.

" _ Behave _ ," John cautioned.

"So I'm going to institute the traffic lights system for tonight," Peter continued calmly. "Are you familiar?"

John nodded, and Sherlock's face went pinched. He hated to admit to not knowing,

"To make sure you're okay with everything that's happening," John explained. "You say 'green' for 'yes, I like this, continue,' or 'yellow' for 'back up a little, I'm not sure', and 'red' for 'no, stop, I don't want to do this'. You can say any of them at any time, and that's fine, or Peter might ask you."

"Hang on, John, you can say it too. So can I."

Nodding curtly, Sherlock set down his mug and motioned them into his bedroom. Peter and John dutifully followed. John sat in the chair in the corner of the room and tried not to watch too closely as the other two negotiated undressing each other and themselves down to just pants. Peter's hands came up to ghost over Sherlock's nipples.

"John should take notes," he burst out immediately, standing straight and stiff.

"Not part of the agreement," John reminded him. "You green? Tell Peter if you're yellow; he can start with something else."

"No, green. Continue."

"No pressure, but you're allowed to touch me pretty much anywhere, too," Peter murmured, and leaned in to put his mouth where his fingers had been. Sherlock looked at John, his lips parted slackly, his hands fluttering at his sides. He clearly had no idea what to do.

"Put your hands on him, Sherlock. On his shoulders or arms or in his hair; it's up to you. It helps give nonverbal cues, too."

Sherlock did as directed, Peter  _ hmmed  _ in approval, and Sherlock's grip flexed automatically.

"Christ, you're a specimen," Peter smiled. "How about you hop on the bed and let me make this really nice."

"Yes," came the reply. "That sounds... yes." He glanced at John again, and he made himself smile encouragingly.

When he lay down and Peter covered him with his body, lining their groins up, Sherlock shook his head.

"No," he said. "Yellow. Can we change places?"

"Yeah, course." They switched around, and Peter held Sherlock's hips down against his own.

"Just like this, that's good, isn't it," he encouraged, rolling his hips, urging Sherlock to do the same.

"Green," agreed Sherlock. "Oh. John. I'm hard." John's mouth dried up as he watched the sinuous curve of his back.

"That's good, Sherlock, great." Peter was chuckling quietly, and John couldn't blame him. "You could ask Peter if he'll suck you."

"I'm pretty good at that."

"Yes. Do that, Peter?" Whether that was meant to be a demand or a plea, John couldn't be sure, but the catch in Sherlock's voice was certainly incendiary.

_ Shit _ .

"If I get you to come now, do you think you could manage a second time when I fuck you, or should I stop right before you come, keep you on the edge for later?" Peter was asking.

"One. Stop me."

John hastily focussed back in on the conversation.

"Do you do that, Sherlock?"

"'People don't ask about their friend's kinks,' John."

John snorted inelegantly. "Prat. Have you, though, tried edging? It’s not for everyone."

"Yes. I am aware. Peter, if you could. Please." He reclined back against the headboard, and Peter knelt beside him, pulling Sherlock's briefs off. John found himself craning his neck to see, and sat bolt upright, cheeks burning.

"Oh," Peter hummed in approval. "Very nice."

"Thanks," Sherlock replied dryly. With his legs spread a little, he let Peter hunker down between his knees, and handed him a condom. John’s gaze was transfixed on Sherlock’s face, and he could tell when his cock was taken between soft lips and then swallowed down.

He wouldn’t announce it as bluntly as Sherlock had, but John realised that he, too, was hard. Biting his cheek, he stared at the ceiling and thought of Margaret Thatcher for a bit, then focused on Sherlock’s face.

When Sherlock’s hands began moving in the space ahead of him, John cleared his throat.

“Put your hands  _ on _ him, Sherlock. As long as you don’t choke him on y- just don’t choke him, and it’ll be good. And tell him what you’re liking.”

“Ah, more at the, uh, head? Or, um,”

John could not have said what Sherlock requested next, as everything seemed to get rather hazy as he imagined what this could have been like if Sherlock had asked him for this. He pressed his hand against his cock, hoping hopelessly it could somehow relieve the pressure.

“Sherlock, don’t come,” Peter said firmly, and John managed to focus in time to see him wiping his mouth as Sherlock bucked his hips in a tight little motion, his face pained.

“But, oh please-”

“No, you can do this. Don’t come now.”

“I want to, just-”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, before Peter could accidentally send Sherlock into a tantrum. “You said you were okay with not coming now. Give us a colour?”

“God, green, please. John. What do I do now? I can’t - Peter, you can’t touch me, I’ll.”

“What do you want to do?” Peter asked, his voice gentler now.

“Up to you, Sherlock, but you might return the favour a bit.” 

John looked at Peter, who nodded and moved back from Sherlock, letting him sit up. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

Sherlock reached for Peter’s hips, holding him in place with both hands, and studied his clothed erection. His thumbs moved idly for a while, stroking Peter’s skin where it bordered his pants.

“I think you would get on quite well with Peter, John.”

“I think so,” John allowed, bemused by the apparent non-sequitur. Sherlock nodded and began to shimmy Peter’s underpants down.

“No, hang on, how does looking at my cock make you think John and I would get on?”

“Your pants, Peter.”

“Okay, but-”

“Excuse me, Peter,” John butted in. “Get to the point, Sherlock. Not everyone is turned on by your deductions.”

“They fit you perfectly. They’re far from new, but they’re certainly not worn out. And the colour suits you very well. Don’t you think, John?” His hands on Peter’s hips twisted him a little to allow John a better view.

“Um.” They were very flattering, he supposed.

“I recognise the colour. And obviously the brand. This colour was released, what, four years ago now? And you were starting to really come into your stride in your career about then. Had some money to spend. I imagine you bought quite the stash of these. Practicality and comfort and the little routines to keep you steady in an unpredictable job. Of course John would like you; he’s the same with tea.”

“I think we’ll all get on fine,” Peter agreed, and smoothed back Sherlock’s hair a little. “Would you like me to take these pants off, then? I wouldn’t mind seeing that mouth of yours on me, if that’s okay with you.”

Sherlock nodded, but John was unsure what the expression on his face meant. Seeing Peter’s cock bob free of his underwear was - kind of confusing. He was almost painfully hard, but this was nothing like furtively downloading gay porn to wank to before deleting all trace of it from his computer and their browsing history. This was real and arousing as hell, but as nice as Peter was, John wasn’t really attracted to him like he was to Sherlock.

No, that wasn’t it. John could certainly imagine having some very nice sex with Peter. He shook his head. Tonight was not about him. Then - “Oi, come on, boys. Put a condom on that first.”

Peter let out a bark of a laugh and moved to roll one onto himself. Almost as soon as he returned to Sherlock on the bed, Sherlock licked lewdly up the length of his cock and swallowed much of it down. He gagged a little, pulled back to breathe, and promptly choked himself on it again. It was difficult to tell, but he rather thought Sherlock was not particularly enjoying himself.

_ He insisted we try things that didn't interest me, _ John recalled him saying.

“Yellow, God, stop that,” he found himself almost-shouting. Peter was already pulling away from Sherlock, but John continued, already stepping towards him. “You idiot, he’s not Wilkes.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock muttered.

“It has to be good for both of you. Jesus.”

When Peter threaded his hands through Sherlock’s hair and suggested quietly they move along, John let himself step back from the bed, although he pulled his chair a little closer as he sat.

“Such an idiot, sometimes,” he continued. Sherlock rolled his eyes and passed Peter his lube, lying back with his knees up and feet spread. He flinched a little at the first touch of a finger to his anus but Peter stroked his thighs and he relaxed.

“I’ve - I’ve been practicing a little lately, but - ah, it’s been a while, really, Peter.”

“That’s fine. We’ll take as long as you need.”

“You’re doing great, Sherlock,” John assured him. “It’s going to feel so good. You just relax.”

Sherlock let out a long breath, sinking into the mattress. Peter murmured in approval.

“Ready now?” he asked, and waited for a nod in reply before working a slick fingertip inside.

“God, it’s different when it’s someone else, isn’t it,” quipped Sherlock. Humming a reply, John was struck by Sherlock’s eyes flicking to his and his gaze sharpening.

“More, Peter. I wouldn’t have thought you’d done this, in particular.”

John forced a chuckle, affected a casual shrug. “Some of the things I’ve done might surprise you. I might even tell you about the stuff that’s not classified, one day.”

Sherlock snorted inelegantly, clearly indicating his disbelief, and Peter chuckled.

“Focus, you two. You like that, Sherlock?”

“I can tell he does,” John told him. Have you touched his prostate, yet?”

Peter shook his head. “I bet we could make him boneless and needy even without touching it. What do you think, John?”

“Just a little. Come up to it, nothing too strong.”

He knew when Peter nudged against it, and Sherlock tried to shoot an accusing glare at him between moans.

“You’re a bastard, John Watson. That - that - mm. You’ve tried this. On yourself?”

“Tonight’s not about me,” John evaded. “Are you ready for another finger?”

When Sherlock assented, Peter added a little more lubricant and began working in a second digit.

“Green,” Sherlock volunteered. “It’s a bit - something - but not painful.”

“You’re doing so well,” John told him.

“I like the - the feeling inside. The pressure.”

“Yeah,” Peter murmured, and rubbed over his prostate again, breathing a laugh at Sherlock’s reaction. “You like that?”

“It’s - another, another finger, I like it. I can take another.”

“Alright, if you’re sure.”

Sherlock turned his head to look at John. Keeping hold of Sherlock’s gaze, as glazed over and desperate as it was becoming, helped John not stare at Peter’s fingers rubbing over his perfect skin, pushing in.

“I feel so full, it’s - have you - have you tried this, John. It feels like -  _ John _ , have you tried this?”

“I -” he closed his mouth and swallowed, his tongue gone dry. “I like getting someone to where you are now,” he admitted.

“No, I mean - John. You  _ know _ .”

“Mmm. What if Peter put his mouth on you while his fingers inside are pressing right there?”

“Incorrigible,” Sherlock huffed. When Peter did cover the head of Sherlock’s cock with his mouth, suckling as he crooked and swiped his fingers, his hips began stuttering into motion.

“No, none of that,” Peter reminded him, easing his fingers free. “Breathe. You’re not coming yet: give me a colour.”

“Fuck, I never should have agreed to this,” he groaned.

“This was your harebrained idea!”

“Sshh, I can’t - I can’t think. Green, but give me a moment.” They all three breathed in carefully counted rhythms.


	3. Chapter 3

Eventually John could see some of the tension relax out of Sherlock’s body.

“Peter,” he said, then realised what he was about to ask. “Is he nice and ready,” he choked out, “d’you think?”

Peter traced a single finger around the pink edge of Sherlock’s hole, dipping in slightly. He gently tugged at the rim.

“Would you like to see for yourself?”

He shook his head even as his hands clenched, imagining sinking fingers into him. “Pull his knees up and fuck him, I think.”

“Fuck,” Sherlock agreed with a groan. He tipped his hips up, shoving a pillow under them. Peter added more lube to his hole and slicked up his own cock.

“You ready, beautiful?”

Despite his face already being flushed, John was sure Sherlock blushed at the term.

“It’s not really the time for jokes,” he groused.

“Are you kidding me, Sherlock?” John inched the chair closer again, leaned in to stare at Sherlock. “You’re gorgeous.”

Glassy eyes stared him down. “You’re a hopeless romantic,” he accused.

“If you say so,” John agreed placidly. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. Yes, please.”

A final swipe of lubricant was pressed into Sherlock. Peter directed him to hold his knees back as he gently but insistently pushed the head of his cock inside him. Sherlock gasped and groaned.

“Ah, Sherlock, are you good? You feel so good.”

“Yeah. It’s… John?”

“It’s good, yeah?”

“You just take a minute,” Peter told Sherlock, taking carefully even breaths. “Get used to the feeling.”

“Listen, is it good? It’s okay if you want to stop or anything.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m green. Peter, you can - go on.” He reached down to stroke his own erection, plumping up once more. Peter murmured a reply, hooking his hands behind Sherlock’s knees and starting to rock into him. John swallowed past the lump in his throat.

“You’re doing well, so well, Sherlock.”

“God. This is - different. Yes, it’s-”

Peter traced light lines down Sherlock’s thigh, Sherlock fell silent, and John burned.

“Would you like me to - anything? I can go - faster, or harder, or shallower?”

“I don’t - I don’t know.” He looked distressed. “What should - what’s best?”

"It's okay, Sherlock. There’s no wrong answer. Don't worry about it; you don’t have to do anything tonight. Just let Peter look after you."

Sherlock flung a hand out towards John. "Maybe - harder? I.” He tossed his head. “I really want to come." John could believe it - Sherlock's cock twitched when Peter began to move in him, and nudged slick pre-come against his stomach with each motion. His hand remained outstretched, however, reaching to John, and John scooted his chair further forward and tentatively rested his fingertips against Sherlock's.

“You’re doing so well,” he assured him. “Do you like it?” Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it again, and nodded. John grinned. “You like it hard? You want to feel it all week?” The fingers clenching around his own were answer enough.

He tore his eyes away from Sherlock to glance at Peter, who chuckled and deftly squirted some more lubricant into his hand. When he started thrusting with some real force and stroking his cock as he did, Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut and bit his lip. Concerned, John found himself kneeling by the bed, entwining his hand with Sherlock’s.

“All good?” His friend looked at him and smiled, looking dazed. Small panting sounds escaped his mouth rhythmically.

“You’re doing so well, just let go. Come on, beautiful.” Sherlock’s gaze was still holding him in place, and John reached out with his free hand to push and hold riotous sweaty curls out of the way. At the sustained contact Sherlock’s back arched and his mouth opened wider, and John could only stare back at him as he came silently. He was distantly aware of Peter releasing Sherlock’s spent cock and slowing his motions.

 

 

When he managed to look away for a second, Peter was smiling at them, tension in his posture as he held himself back. Sherlock seemed to come back to himself then, and rolled his hips provocatively.

“Go on, then,” he said to Peter, although his eyes were still boring into John. “Do it.”

Peter exhaled loudly and fucked into Sherlock in fast and increasingly uneven thrusts, chasing his own climax. It didn’t take long, and after a long moment buried deep inside, he gingerly pulled out, both of them becoming oversensitive. He slumped onto the bed mostly beside and only a little on top of Sherlock, but reached over to touch John on the shoulder.

“Thanks,” was all he said, and Sherlock mumbled a “thank you, John,” as well. With no idea how to respond, John stammered something about cloths to clean up, and fled. In the bathroom he grabbed a handful of tissues, shoved his jeans down and came almost immediately. A deep breath steadied him. He ran hot water over some flannels and squeezed them out, and marched back to the bedroom.

Still glistening with sweat and more than a little semen and lube, Sherlock had apparently fallen asleep. Peter grinned at John watching him, grabbed the cloths, and took care of clean-up. John tried to excuse himself, offering to get coffee, but Peter declined, said he’d be on his way.

“Thanks again, John,” he said as John saw him down to the street.

“Again, I wasn’t really involved.”

Peter turned to look at him, and the combination of disbelief and omniscience was alarmingly Mycroft-ish.

“Right. Just look after him, yeah?”

John nodded mutely.

“You’re sweet, John. I’ll see you round,” he smiled, and was off towards the tube.

When he came back upstairs, Sherlock was on his chair with his feet up, a hand to his mouth. John busied himself with making tea for both of them. When it was ready, he set it within Sherlock’s reach and touched him on the shoulder to call him back from his mind palace.

“Hey,” he breathed, as Sherlock leant into his touch a little. “Cuppa for you.”

“Mm.” Sherlock pursed his lips and looked past John. “That was…”

John waited, but Sherlock just sipped his tea, returning the finger to his lips between mouthfuls.


	4. Chapter 4

John tried to have a wank without thinking about Sherlock looking like that and failed spectacularly. Then he came spectacularly.

 

John tried to get on with his life.

 

It went alright until Sherlock strode into the bathroom while John was having a quick wank in the shower.  _ Sherlock, mouth wide and eyes blinking away the water, shining with that heady mix of trust and arousal. _

“Fucking knock, Sherlock!”

“I need your assistance.”

“Murderer’s taken a hostage? A bomb in a London Bus? You can’t find the right pair of socks? What are we looking at, here?”

“What? No, I -” Through the shower curtain John could see Sherlock pacing, and he tried to will his cock into submission so they could have a proper conversation. “I need advice on a. Area. Of your expertise.”

“Medicine? Or the military?”

“Sex.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, intimacy, actually, and how it pertains to sex. I was wondering if you co-”

“ _ I was wondering, _ ” he asked tersely, “if this is actually urgent, or if this could wait a few minutes.”

“No, I suppose not. I’ll be in the living room when you’ve finished masturbating.”

John choked and coughed.

“Don’t worry, I’ve found that evening quite useful for that sort of thing, myself. Don’t take too long.”

He brought himself off quickly after that, with little pleasure, and spent a few minutes trying to pointlessly hide the evidence from his face and body. When he made his way to the living room, Sherlock was folded sideways into his chair.

“He didn’t kiss me,” Sherlock pointed out with a pout.

“No, I guess not,” John conceded. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Shouldn’t - I thought there should be more kissing.”

“He's a professional, Sherlock. Kissing is sometimes more, I dunno, intimate. I’m not sure if he'd do kissing unless you specified it.”

“Hmm.”

“Will you book him again, then?”

Rather than answering, Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin. John’s stomach dropped.

“Oh God. What.”

Sherlock looked pitifully at him

“No, stop.”

“You care about me.”

“Of course I do - but -”

“You could -”

“I  _ could _ , that doesn’t mean I’ll-”

“Please, John.”

Closing his eyes, John massaged his temples. Unbidden, an image came to him of Sherlock saying that, naked and breathless, curving his body to John’s touch. More than the considerable surge of arousal was the tug of affection in his chest that nearly made him stagger.

“If - if we do this - just this once, mind, I don’t think I could - I don’t think we should have to repeat this, right?”

He could have this, once, and move on. He could do it. Sholto and he had danced around each other long enough before they made a move. They knew it couldn’t work, agreed even as they decided to go ahead that it would not happen again, that it wasn’t feasible to start a relationship in a warzone. Living with Sherlock, John could see London as the battlefield and told himself he could do this. Once. Anything more was asking for heartbreak.

A long moment passed before John could bring himself to look at his friend. Sherlock was looking out the window, clenching his jaw

“Anything you want, John.”

“Alright. Good. Um. When?”

“I’m not busy now.”

“Uh, well, I’m probably not… up to this,” he cringed at his own choice of words. “For a while.”

Sherlock nodded, glanced at him. “Tonight?”

John swallowed hard.

“Sure. Tonight.”


	5. Chapter 5

The problem was, of course, that ‘tonight’ was a terribly vague term. Sherlock began staring at him incessantly even before he had made dinner. John insisted on eating, however, and refused to acknowledge him beyond telling him to take a shower. He returned with pink skin and fluffy hair, immaculately dressed once more, as John washed up.

“Now?” Sherlock asked as soon as he pulled the plug. John rolled his shoulder.

“Sure. Yeah. Come on, your room again?” Sherlock followed quietly, and when John reached the bed and turned to face him, he had already undone half the buttons on his shirt.

“Hold up, what’s the rush?” He put his hands on Sherlock’s arms as he asked, and Sherlock fell still. “Are you ready?”

Nodding eagerly, Sherlock bit his lip. “What happens now?”

“Now,” John said, his stomach sinking and his heart in his throat, “I kiss you.”

He leaned in, tugging at Sherlock’s sleeves until he stooped to a more reasonable height. As soon as his lips brushed against Sherlock’s infuriating mouth, John knew what a terrible mistake he had made. This would ruin him, but in truth John could admit he had been spoiled for anyone else long ago. He could make the most of it. Sherlock wanted to know, and by God, John would show him.

Nipping at his lip, he asked, “this alright?”, and used the opportunity when Sherlock breathed a “yes” in reply to deepen the kiss. He slipped an arm around Sherlock’s waist, rested his hand at the beginning of the delightful swell of arse. Sherlock had one hand fisted in John’s jumper but brought the other behind his shoulder, pulling John closer as he inexpertly kissed back.

John let himself indulge in some fantasies he’d had regarding Sherlock’s throat, licking and sucking his way down to the notch of his sternum and back. He could _feel_ him gasping for air, trying to find words.

“Do - Do I take my shirt off, now?”

“Yes. Yes, let me - yes.” Sherlock’s hands seemed to tremble slightly, so John took over the task of unbuttoning the shirt. His fingers ghosted over alabaster skin, skipping the small scar in the centre.

“Gonna kiss you all over,” he assured Sherlock. “Can I -”

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted. John laughed breathlessly. “You’d let me do anything?”

“”I trust you, John.”

John shook his head and kissed him again, because he could and because he didn’t dare say anything. When Sherlock broke away to gasp and moan, John trailed kisses down to a nipple, rubbing the other with a thumb.

“Please, John.”

He had to stop, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s heaving chest.

“What do you need, Sherlock?” His voice was rough.

“Just - touch me?”

Together they clumsily undid the flies of his trousers and pushed them down. Dropping onto a knee, John kissed down from his navel to tease the skin at the top edge of his pants. He tugged them a little lower to press his lips lower and lower still. When he rubbed his nose into curly auburn hair, Sherlock made a surprised little noise.

“Gonna kiss you all over,” John repeated, and he nodded and shoved down his pants entirely, stepping out of them.

“You really are gorgeous,” John told him, taking in the sight. Not for the first time, he wished he had a memory palace to store things like this.

“Probably not my strongest skill, but I’m going to kiss you here now, okay?” He cupped and stroked Sherlock’s cock.

“I know it’s kind of small, but -”

John cut him off with a wet kiss to the head, sucking gently as he pulled away.

“Gorgeous,” he said firmly. “Maybe you should sit down?” Sherlock nodded silently and perched on the edge of his bed, flushing red as John encouraged him to spread his legs. Delicate kisses trailed in from Sherlock’s thighs.

“Don’t feel like you have to hold back,” he said quietly.

“John.” His voice was already husky and broken. John rose up enough to lick another kiss into Sherlock’s eager lips, ignoring the creaking in his joints. Then he crouched down and took the head into his mouth, his tongue soft against the glans still half-hidden in foreskin. When he sank down further and sucked, Sherlock made a strangled noise. With a little practice he remembered how to undulate his tongue on the underside, enjoying the subtle feeling of power from hearing - feeling - Sherlock’s reactions. He pulled away as Sherlock’s breathing became more ragged and pressed a kiss onto his belly then pulled him down to take his mouth once more.

“This is hell on the knees, you know,” he murmured into Sherlock’s cheek, and felt his hands clench at his shirt.

“We could - or -”

John giggled and shook his head.

“No, it’s fine. This is - more than fine.” Sherlock’s hips were rutting up towards him. As he kissed his chest and hip he could feel him trembling. Nuzzling into his groin, John licked sloppy kisses up the underside of  Sherlock’s admittedly modest length and sucked at the head, probing his tongue at the slit and stroking him with his hand.

“John, I -” and John understood, pulled away to watch him gasping as he pulsed onto his own stomach, John’s hand coaxing a few extra twitches from his spent cock. He licked his lips.

Sherlock groaned and tugged at his shoulders, pulling him up once more and kissing him fiercely. John leaned into Sherlock and he obligingly lay back, letting him roam his hands over his chest and belly, smearing the mess across his skin. Although he rutted lazily against Sherlock’s thigh, John found he was more than content to continue kissing as Sherlock came back to earth, gradually calming and slowing. Huge hands traced up his body, caressed his face. Shifting only far enough to focus on his face, John smiled down at him.

“How was that?” he asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled.

“Mm, very good. Come back here.”

John tried to remind himself that it was _not real_ as Sherlock manipulated his head to ghost kisses over both his eyelids. They shifted to something more side-by-side, though legs and arms kept pulling their bodies closer.

“Do you want… more?” John wondered aloud eventually. “Would you like to go again? I’ve got some more I could show you, if you like. We don’t have to, though, if you want to stop, I could - go.” He couldn’t, he was quite sure, but there was no reason to let Sherlock know that.

“Yes, let’s - yes.” Sherlock had fucking _deduced_ the spot under his jaw that set him off, and he tried to pretend thrusting into the mattress was sufficient.

“Okay, I. Um. I’m a fair bit. Hmm. Bigger. Than Peter. So. Is that going to be… okay?”

He had looked away as he forced the words out, but when he looked back to his friend Sherlock had his fingertips against his lower lip.

“I knew it,” he whispered.

John rolled his eyes and began to undress hurriedly.

"Of course you did, genius. Come on, roll over for me, yeah?"


	6. Chapter 6

He’d seen Sherlock’s back, of course, but John personally preferred for people to neither focus on nor avoid his own sprawling scar, and suspected Sherlock might be the same. With sweeping motions of his hands accompanying his nipping and licking, he kissed a path from Sherlock’s long neck down to his rounded bottom. When he took two handfuls of arsecheek and squeezed gently, exposing his hole, Sherlock made a strange noise.

“You all good?” John asked, absently stroking his bum.

“Not going to comment, on the - no, of course not. Yes, I’m very good,” he replied. Burying his face in his pillow, Sherlock shifted his hips a little then relaxed into the mattress.

“Gonna kiss you,” John choked out, gathering himself to lean in and kiss a little path down from Sherlock’s tailbone, soft and open-mouthed as he approached his anus. When he ran his tongue over the puckered skin, Sherlock squawked and jerked his head up.

“Oh! I - John, are you going to put your tongue - _in_ me?”

“I want to put a lot more than just my tongue in you,” he said lightly, and Sherlock shuddered and muttered into the pillow.

“What was that? If you’re not comfortable with that, it’s okay, we can-”

“Green. That’s so. John. Please. Isn’t that... Oh my God. In me. Green, yes?”

“Very good.” John petted his thighs and kissed him again, testing the rim with his tongue. He didn’t let himself smile at Sherlock’s words. Sherlock pushed back against him, even though the muscle did not give.

“Soon,” he assured Sherlock. “I’ll kiss you here ‘til you are so ready for me, Sherlock, ready and begging -”

“Yes, John, please.”

When he licked and kissed and nipped at Sherlock’s arse and Sherlock pushed back into him again, impatient, John giggled and feigned biting his flank.

“Behave,” he growled.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock agreed quickly. “Please.”

He traced a finger over the hole and then obliged, burying his face against Sherlock’s arse and writhing his tongue in. Sherlock keened. John kissed and licked into him long after the tight muscle began to stretch and relax, until he was concerned for his jaw cramping.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Oh my God,” Sherlock slurred in reply. He shuffled his knees to lift his hips higher, and shoved a hand under himself to stroke his cock, now well and truly hard again. John tutted at him, pulling his arm away.

“You leave that. I’ll look after you.”

“Yes, green, John.”

His fingers sank easily into Sherlock’s body, and he crooked them slightly as he kissed the curve of his backside. Sherlock groaned and tried to grind back onto John’s hand, but John held him steady.

“Wait, wait. Let me do this for you.”

“Yes,” he breathed, and went boneless against the mattress. “You feel good.”

“Good. You stay where you are, just enjoy it.”

Even with his face turned most of the way into a pillow, John heard him murmur “thank you, John.”

John chuckled and slipped his fingers from Sherlock, tracing the pink rim with a single fingertip. “It’s my pleasure, believe me.”

Sherlock hummed happily as John shucked his vest and pants, and rolled on a condom. Slicking more lube on himself, he cradled Sherlock’s hips and positioned them both. He rubbed the head of his cock against Sherlock’s arse in slow movements, pressing on his hole and slipping past. Once he felt as desperate as he had ever been, he took a deep breath, held himself steady, and caressed any skin he could reach.

“Okay. Bear down a little.”

It took an age for even the head of his cock to press inside, and John curled over to press a kiss to Sherlock’s spine. “How are you going, there,” he asked, whispering without meaning to.

“Oh, John.”

“Is is alright? How do you feel?” A slight nod answered his question, he hoped, because Sherlock was as unclear as ever.

“John, ohhh.”

“Okay, it’s alright, I’ve got you.” Leaning back, he watched as Sherlock’s body accepted more of him into itself, and bit his cheek against his impulses.

When his hips brushed against Sherlock, John smiled.

“That’s it; I’m all the way in you now.”

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Sherlock whispered fervently.

“You ready?”

Sherlock nodded, his hair wild, and curled into himself somewhat, curving his back invitingly for John to mold himself to. He pressed innumerable kisses into his skin as he worked his hips and started really fucking into him.

 In truth John would have liked nothing more than taking Sherlock’s mouth with his own as they rocked together, but that felt like something he should only do if - it felt like showing his hand just to think it - if they were really _together_ , if Sherlock knew John loved him and loved him back. This was all he was allowed, and as it was he felt guilty, like he was taking more than he was giving - like he was taking more than _Sherlock_ was giving.

His rhythm faltered, and Sherlock twisted to look at him.

“John - you’re so good, John, are you okay?”

He nodded, gathering himself and resuming the rolling thrust of his hips, pressing deep into the tight heat of Sherlock and cherishing the little noises pushed from his throat. One hand slipped around Sherlock’s body, tracing the curve of a hip on its way to curl around his cock, feeling it twitch as he caressed it and started to stroke.

When he felt his orgasm start to approach, a fantastical notion of coming inside Sherlock - of coming bare inside him, pushing anything that leaked out back inside with a finger - overtook him, and though he tried to stave it off he was lost, grinding hard into him with a bitten-off sound. Whether it would have been a warning or an apology, John wasn’t even sure, although he feared it could have been a confession.

Refusing to let his afterglow sour, John murmured to Sherlock and eased out of him. He was stopped from moving away from him by Sherlock reaching for him and asking “don’t go anywhere, stay right here” so once he’d tied off the condom he wrapped both his arms around him and held him close, wrapped a hand around him. Sherlock thrust into his grip, whining in his desperation.

“Go on,” John encouraged. “I’ve got you. Fuck my hand, Sherlock, come on, you can come for me, can’t you?”

Sherlock nodded, and John kissed his shoulder. His hand splayed on Sherlock’s flat belly, holding them together.

“You did so well, Sherlock. I hope you enjoyed it all? Come on, beautiful, let go. Come for me.”

Sherlock shuddered and groaned through his climax, dropping his head between his arms as they shook. John murmured soft encouragements to him, gentling his touch on Sherlock’s cock.

“Don’t go away, don’t go anywhere,” Sherlock repeated as he lowered himself, not at all gracefully, to lie on the mattress.

“Not going to,” John assured him, “but don’t you want to clean up?”

“Mm. Cloths’re there.” He flung an arm in the direction of his bedside table. Despite a show at grumbling, John leaned over to get them, wiping gently at Sherlock’s arse and thighs with his as Sherlock mopped up the mattress.

“No pain, right?” A traitorous finger reached out to touch his entrance, which was soft and pink. Sherlock tipped his hips up, just a fraction, and his finger slipped in, just to the first knuckle.

“It’s all… very good. Thank you.” When his fingertip slipped back out, Sherlock grasped his hand and pulled it around himself. John settled in, waited for him to say something or to let go, but he fell asleep before either happened.

 

Morning came, and John stretched lazily in bed. He was alone, which he couldn’t say surprised him. After a final moment wallowing in Sherlock’s sheets, he collected his discarded clothes on his way to the bathroom.

Freshly showered, John tied his robe firmly around his waist, steeled himself against heartbreak, and stepped out into the kitchen and living area. Lying on the sofa, Sherlock was clearly in his mind palace, filing or searching for something. John headed upstairs to get dressed. Sherlock had his answers now; everything would go back to how it was. He grimaced at the thought.


	7. Chapter 7

Soon after John set down a toasted sandwich by Sherlock, he heard him breathe deeply and turned in time to see him open his eyes.

“Lunch, for you,” he croaked, his voice rough with emotion and disuse. Sherlock did not respond, but ten minutes later the plate was empty. The silence was crisp in the air as John collected it and an assortment of mugs from around the room. Although they didn't always make small talk, John could usually find something to say. Somehow _the taste of your skin is addictive_ or _the sounds you made bordered on a religious experience and I am your devoted acolyte_ didn't seem quite appropriate.

He’d nearly finished the washing up when Sherlock spoke suddenly.

“It’s not like that all the time; it can’t be.”

“What’s that?”

“ _Sex_ , John!” he bellowed, and John hoped Mrs Hudson was not in. Mentally he cursed at himself for not noticing Sherlock was also still worked up about last night. Assuring himself he had comported himself well and Sherlock would not have serious complaints, he took a casual tone.

“Well, it’s going to be different every time, that’s part of the appeal isn’t it?”

“No, I mean…”

John waited, but he did not finish his sentence. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said gently. “Can you tell me?”

“It _can’t_ be like that for everyone. How would anyone achieve anything, _do_ anything else? It just - the other week was _nothing_ like last night. In the same way, looking back now with a clear mind - alright John,” he interrupted himself, “ _yes_ , a sober mind - I liked my experiences with Victor better than those with Sebastian. I liked _him_ better.”

“Well, I’m glad we can maybe be on the same page with regards to Wilkes being an abusive dick,” John said, abandoning the dishes. “But you already knew, I hope, that you like me more than you like Peter. We’re best friends, right? Of course it’s different with someone you know, than with a professional.” His throat felt tight as he forced the words out, and he stopped a few feet away from Sherlock.

“It’s more than that, though, isn’t it?” Sherlock said. “It’s the… sentiment. It’s how the best parts weren’t even when you-” he went beet red and mumbled for a while before taking a shuddering breath and continuing. “It meant more to me than the excuses we made. I think… I hope it was the same for you.”

“Sherlock, are you-” He cut himself off, and Sherlock broke his gaze to pull at a loose thread in his trousers.

“I can’t - I need _you_ to say it.”

Silently John took another step towards him, pained by how small his voice was.

“Please. Please be the brave one, John.”

John felt his legs shake, and sat hard next to him. For Sherlock, he would make that leap into the unknown.

“Fuck, Sherlock. Holy _shit._ Do you mean it? Yes. _Yes_ . I love you.” Sherlock's face lit up, and he continued, buoyed on by the relief and joy written in his mouth and eyes.  “I love you so much, can I kiss you forever? I _wanted_ to tell you, it’s been killing me to not just-” he reached out to touch his thumb to Sherlock’s full lower lip. “To not just kiss you, and kiss you, and make you know how loved you are.”

“John,” Sherlock breathed, and then they were kissing, something entirely different to the night before. John took innumerable little sipping kisses from Sherlock’s willing lips and held him tight as he trembled. Before long he could feel his hips bucking as well.

“Mm, gorgeous.”

“You think so?”

“Of course, of course I do, come here, I love you.”

Despite his words, John was the one to move, throwing a leg over one of Sherlock’s and tucking his knee in close.

“There,” he murmured, grinding down on Sherlock’s thigh. “How about this?”

Sherlock garbled a reply as he shifted, and John kissed him again. They lost time there, steadily getting less steady and more desperate. When Sherlock pulled away to speak, John cradled his face in his hands, shifting to comb fingers through his hair.

“I don’t know if- I don’t know what you want, John.” Despite his flushed skin and kiss-swollen lips, he looked nervous.

“Just you. You and me, right here. That’s all I want. Forever, if you’ll have me,” John admitted.

“Right here?” Sherlock’s eyes glistened.

“Yeah, you know. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, 221B Baker St. That’s how it’s meant to be, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Oh yes, of course. I had thought maybe you meant, _you and me, right here_ , you know?” His gaze dropped, deliberately slowly, to John’s crotch. John groaned and pulled Sherlock closer.

“If you want. Cheeky shit,” he murmured, licking into his mouth. Shaking fingers wrapped around his own.

“I want, I want.”

 

Soon Sherlock twisted in place and leaned back into the cushions, John following closely after. He thrust his hips into Sherlock’s, kissed him sweetly as he shifted, and thrust again.

“Fuck, Sherlock, love, this won't take long, I'm sorry,” he gasped into his mouth. Sherlock made a noise of agreement.

“Please, John,” he begged, and John pushed himself up with one arm to take in the vision under him. His free hand cupped Sherlock's flushed cheek, and Sherlock clasped that hand in his own, holding it there.

“Look at you, my darling genius. You're spectacular; I love you.”

Sherlock twisted his face as it reddened further and his hips ground up harder. “John- ah!”

“Look at me, look at me,” John coaxed, and felt his heart clench when he could see the clear colour of his eyes again. “You're so beautiful.” Sherlock couldn't focus on him, it seemed, and stared in apparent shock as orgasm shuddered through him.

His own climax washed through him shortly after, almost an afterthought to their words minutes ago, and he grinned deliriously.

“That was… ” Sherlock began. He looked dazed.

“I'll do it properly next time, love.” John planned on making every fantasy he'd had about them come true. Starting with: “I'll look after you right and kiss you a million times.”

“No, John. I mean, yes, alright, if you insist.” He waved his hand between them to clear his thoughts. It was adorable, John decided, and Sherlock continued. “I meant to say, that was. Without a doubt, the best sex of my life.”

John giggled and settled onto Sherlock to hold him contentedly. He rather thought he agreed.

“So far, at least,” he heard Sherlock amend himself as long arms wrapped around him.

“Yeah. You've no idea, love. Gonna blow your mind.”

“I'm counting on it.”

John snorted a laugh, and shifted to kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> http://loveanddeathandartandtaxes.tumblr.com/post/157501117210/holding-hands-is-finished-and-the-illustrations


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